Eyes Wide Open
by SplatDragon
Summary: Whumptober2019: But even the most willful man has only so much control over his body, and one cannot force their body to deny itself air. And so, even though he knew that there was no air for him to breathe in, that there was only water that would fill his lungs and drown him, he dropped his jaw and inhaled.


**Whumptober 2019: Alt. Prompt #12: "Waterlogged"**

"Wake up!"

Waking up to shouting is _never _good, and Arthur could barely hear Dutch over people screaming.

"Come on, Arthur! Arthur, Arthur!"

Waking up to your name being shouted is even more alarming.

"Wake up!"

He jolted upright, immediately awake despite how absolutely exhausted he was, years of having to wake up at a moments' notice keeping him from hesitating. "Why? What's going on?" Arthur's chest was tight, but he was never one to be slow on the up-take, and he needed to know what was happening. Last he'd known, they were safely on their way to… somewhere.

"I don't know, but we're getting off of this boat." Dutch _never _admitted he didn't know something, and Arthur had to admit he was surprised. But… weren't they in the middle of the ocean? Where would they go?

"You come on," Dutch hauled him to his feet, was the boat crashing? The man began to push him ahead of him, yelling something he didn't catch in all the chaos, but Arthur had always put Dutch ahead of himself so he said,

"You go on ahead, I'll be right behind you," wheezing as his chest constricted, he stepped aside to let Dutch lead the way. As Dutch clambered up the ladder, Arthur took a moment to look around, taking in all the steam and smoke, choking on it and coughing _"Jesus," _before clambering up after Micah, Javier, Bill and Dutch.

The lights flickered on and off, and despite not caring for a great deal of modern amenities Arthur couldn't be more grateful that the lights were electrical, not candles or flames, or the hallway would be set alight and they'd be in even more trouble. The boat swayed violently, and he and Dutch were thrown from their feet—for a moment they weren't on the boat, but an out of control trolley in Saint Denis, and Dutch was on the ground, having hit his head so hard his eyes were black—before a shelf clattered down between them, Arthur only just managing to throw himself out of the way.

His heart leaped into his throat, was Dutch okay? "Dutch…" he clambered to his feet, struggling as the boat rocked harder and harder, wheezing, "Dutch!"

There was a small opening that let him see passed the shelf, and nothing shy of pure relief flooded his veins cold when he saw Dutch on his feet, "I'm okay… you?" struggling against the swaying as well.

If it were any other time, seeing him stagger drunkenly would be hilarious.

"Yeah," he croaked. He was sore, and his chest burned, but he hadn't broken anything, and he didn't want to worry Dutch with something so trivial. They both grabbed at the shelf, moving together without words, Arthur pushing while Dutch pulled, finally having to let go when their muscles screamed in protest,

"This ain't moving." Dutch finally admitted, and Arthur agreed,

"No." and he didn't want to say it, he didn't want to be left alone, or separated from his pa so soon after losing his other, especially in this chaos, but if Dutch stayed here he would surely be in danger, or even killed, so he told him "Yeah, you go on ahead," the words sticking in his throat, "I'll try and find another way." The man looked back over his shoulder, taking in the thick smoke and steam and the wavering lights, praying that they'd stay on long enough for him to get above deck.

"Oh, goddamit!" and he knew Dutch would protest, so he didn't give him time to, bracing himself against the wall as he began to stagger away from the shelf, almost walking passed a staircase hidden by the smoke. It took all he had to haul himself up it, gravity pulling him down, but he finally managed to make his way out into hell.

The deck was aflame, people running and screaming uselessly. Someone fell off the deck, and he had to shove a man away from him when they almost ran into him. The boat rocked violently, threatening to capsize completely, and he lunged to catch himself on the railing, heart leaping into his throat at the sight of the churning black water, reflecting the hellish flames. Far away, though, so far he could only barely make out their shapes against their torch, he could make out Dutch, Javier, Bill and Micah (and damn, couldn't he have drowned?). He clung to the railing with one hand as tightly as he could, waving as hard as he dared with the other, screaming Dutch's name as loudly as he could, his voice cracking as he choked, beginning to cough.

A wave swelled up high, and his heart sank to his feet when it fell, and the boat was gone. Had they capsized? Had they fallen into the ocean? Or had they just gone out of his sight? _'Please, god, let it be that.'_

The boat tilted, more and more—a man screamed as he fell, striking something on the side of the boat and going abruptly silent. Arthur knew, then, that he had to get off the boat, lifeboat or no lifeboat.

So he clambered up onto the railing as carefully as he could, mouth dry with terror, shivering at the thought of jumping into the pitch black water in the dark night. He braced himself, watching as man after man jumped into the water, some colliding with each other, others with the boat, and so he gathered himself before launching off the railing, throwing himself as far away from the boat as he could.

Arthur fell, and fell, and fell.

He struck the water hard, fighting the urge to gasp at the cold that bit into him like fangs of ice, thrashing and struggling to reorient himself. It was pitch black, and he forced his eyes open, even as they burned in the salt-water, finally twisting and kicking in the direction that the bubbles were floating. Arthur's head broke the water and he gasped, half inhaling water, beginning to cough and choke even as he began to swim as fast as he could away from the boat, his muscles weak from the shock of the cold.

With an ear-shattering groan, the boat sunk beneath the water.

A great wave rippled out, rising high before crashing down, forcing everything on the surface under the water. Arthur's eyes widened, but there was nothing he could do but take a deep breath and brace himself, lungs burning, barely able to get any good amount of breath

and he was beneath the water again. He turned, head over heels, disoriented, tumbling against wood and other debris, something that felt suspiciously like a corpse. Arthur thrashed, kicking out, trying to right himself

his head broke water again, and he gasped, spitting out the water that had been in his mouth. He raised his arms, trying to brace himself on something, _anything_, reaching blindly out into the dark. His fingers grazed against wood, against the remains of furniture, but they floated out of his reach.

Another wave crashed over his head, and he went under with a muffled shout that died rapidly. His head cracked against something hard, and despite how hard he tried he couldn't help but to cry out in pain, his precious breath bubbling out into the water. He held his breath as well as he could, his lungs screaming, as he twisted, thrashing and struggling to figure out which way was up and which was down. But without the flames there was no light to see by, and so he could only guess as to whether he was swimming in the right direction.

He swam, and he swam, and he swam, but his head never broke water. So he twisted, tried to flip himself, and swam in the opposite direction, knocking debris every which way. His lungs burned more and more, screamed desperately, and it took all he had not to open his mouth and breathe.

But even the most willful man has only so much control over his body, and one cannot force their body to deny itself air. And so, even though he knew that there was no air for him to breathe in, that there was only water that would fill his lungs and drown him, he dropped his jaw and _inhaled_.

There was no relief. There was horrifying realization, a sinking feeling of _oh God, what have I done? _as water flooded into his lungs, eyes going wild with terror, beginning to cough in a desperate attempt to clear his lungs. But there was no air to breathe in, each spluttered cough pulling in more water. His lungs burned, more and impossibly more, and if he didn't know better he'd swear that there was a bear loose in his chest, clawing and tearing and biting.

Unable to stop himself, he began to thrash. Kicked and flailed, tried to get his head above water, tried to clear his lungs and get _air,_ get even the slightest of breaths, slammed his hands and feet against debris and corpses, chest so tight that, in his dazed state, he wondered what was sitting on him, and why no one was getting it off of him. Where was Dutch? Where was Hosea? He needed help.

"'lp," _help_, he tried to say, but he had no breath left in his lungs, could barely focus long enough to even mouth it, his consciousness fading, the urgency leaving him.

Calmness flooded through him, a sort of tranquility he had never known, and he began to still—Why was he fighting? This felt so nice.

Eyes wide open, he drifted to the bottom of the sea.


End file.
